White Rabbit
by The Wriiter
Summary: There was only one thing I could sacrifice for Negan. I had my body. And that's what he took. Negan/OC. Possibly a one-shot. Smut.


White Rabbit

He calls me his wife.

You know that that's all bullshit, okay? You know it, and I know it. It's a big fat fucking lie that I used to tell myself to make myself feel better.

It's what I tell myself every time he's two knuckles deep inside of me as I sit on his lap, rubbing my clit and pumping into me with leather-coated fingers, making me squirm in front of the other male Saviors. It's a lie I tell myself every night, when he wraps his arms around me, encaging me against his brawny, tattooed chest, his scruffy cheek scratching up against my bare flesh. It's the lie I tell myself when he yanks me by the chin, yelling in my face, asking me, do you know who the fuck you're motherfucking talking to? when I disobey or talk back to him. It's the lie I tell myself every time he has a hand cupped between my thighs, and he bites my lip, drawing blood, and seals our foreplay with a copper kiss.

Enough lying to myself. I am not a wife to Negan.

I am a _slave_ to Negan.

I know what you're thinking. Negan would never rape a woman. Oh, yeah. I thought that too. I was a fool once, too. Intimidation is rape. Blackmail is rape.

He's blackmailing the other girls. They're there because their husbands, other Saviors, were at risk of starvation, or of death, or of the steaming iron. The girls sell their body to Negan in exchange for the life of their loved ones to be spared. It's an act of sacrifice, an act of bravery.

I owe him a debt that I'm still trying to pay off, but I know I never will.

I agreed to become Negan's slave—sorry, wife—before the Saviors really grew to what they are now. There were a couple of us, maybe about thirty. It was only a month or two after everything began.

I had no clue what I was giving away.

The Saviors found me in the woods in the rain, starving, sick and alone. I thought for sure that I was going to die. I was drenched, covered in dirt and leaves. My brother had gotten sick, too, and was on the verge of death. Negan had collected me in his arms, called for the Saviors for help, and they'd taken us back to the Sanctuary. I'd regained my health, been given a bed and food and water. I could bathe.

I grew close to Negan as I recovered, fooled by his charm and the confident way he talked and that smug grin he always had plastered on his face.

My brother recovered, and acted foolishly, like he always had. He'd stolen guns and made a run for it during the night as I slept, but the Saviors caught him. He didn't make it more than ten miles.

Negan was going to kill my brother for what he'd done, for his ungratefulness.

 _Please_ , I'd begged him, kneeling at his feet. I'm embarrassed at that now. _Christ, Negan, for the love of God, I—_

 _God?_ he'd laughed that cruel laugh, when his eyes have that flicker in them. _Charlie, my dirty girl! My beautiful, foolish kid_ —he leaned down on his haunches, and grabbed my chin with a firm, tight, unforgiving grip, and made me look at him— _There is no God._

I cried, I begged, and I was a fool, in front of the other Saviors. I was weak.

 _Hey, hey, hey,_ he'd said, stroking my face with his leather-gloved hand. His smug grin stretched to the corners of his eyes. It was like he got some sick sexual kick from my begging. _Sh, sh, sh. Come on, sweetheart. Don't cry. I don't want to ruin that beautiful face._ He suddenly became enraged. _Do you understand what I've done for you? Here you are, begging and pleading for your shithead coward brother, after all I've done for you, and he goes and steals all my shit? You're gonna have to pay for him._

He said he'd spare my brother, for a price.

I offered everything I had. I had no money—not that that was worth much anymore—no food, no water, nothing to offer him in exchange for all that he'd done for me, and for sparing my brother's life.

There was only one thing I could offer to Negan, only one thing I could sacrifice.

I had my body.

And that's what he took.

Negan took my childhood and my youth.

I will never forget that night.

I could feel my heart throbbing against my ribcage. _White Rabbit_ by Jefferson Airplane was playing on a vinyl player in the corner of the dark bedroom. Rain had been pouring against the window pane behind the bed.

Now, he plays it every time we fuck. I hate that song.

" _One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small. And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all_..."

I stared up at him in the dark as he straddled me, my hands clutching his back, nails digging in deep into his bare flesh. He slid himself into me and it hurt. I'd never felt pain like that before. He kept pumping into me, his arm stretched out as he clutched the bed's headboard.

"Fuck," he'd smiled through bated breaths. "You're so tight. Christ."

Tears stung my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.

I cried out in pain, grimacing each time he slammed into me.

He noticed, and slowed down. He stopped, pulled out, and cupped a hand to my cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb. He cocked his head to the side with curiosity. His hand travelled downwards, slowly crawling down my abdomen, his cold fingertips causing goosebumps to spread across my flesh.

My heart thundered against my ribcage, and my bare chest moved erratically with every breath I took. I cupped a hand over my eyes, trying to stop myself from crying as I felt Negan's fingers enter inside of me.

"Sweetheart," he'd chuckled, shaking his head at me as I laid beneath him. His index and middle finger probed my slit. He felt around inside of me, and raised up two fingers that were slick with blood for me to see. He shook his head. "You've never fuckin' done this before."

"No," my voice trembled in the dark, pressing my knees together.

He chuckled when I tried to close my legs. "Ah, ah, ah. Let's not be embarrassed."

He told me he'd teach me everything. He kissed me, his cheek scratchy against my skin. He kneeled on the mattress, and smirked down at me. He yanked my legs open wide. He pushed his fingers into my folds, drenching them with blood.

"Let's get you ready, huh?" he murmured. "Let's check if you're wet."

His index and middle finger probed inside of me, his thumb rubbing the tiny bundle of nerves as he did it. My breathing quickened and my eyes rolled back in my head as he slipped another finger inside.

"My dirty girl," he laughed. "God-fuckin'-damn!"

" _And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall. Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call, call Alice, when she was just as small_..."

I rose my hips to meet him.

"Somebody's eager," he chuckled. "Cum for me. That's it. That's a good girl."

He pumped his fingers in and out of me, faster, and faster, until I couldn't take it any longer. I moaned aloud, tears glassing over my eyes. "Fuck, fuck...oh my God..."

"Good _girl_."

I can still remember the blood-spotted white cotton sheets, the pain, my blonde waves of hair splayed out under my head. I can still smell the stench of sex and Negan's aftershave clinging to my chest. I can still see my reflection when I looked in the bathroom mirror early the next morning as he was still snoozing in bed. It was still dark outside and thunder rumbled in the distance. Even in the darkness of the bathroom, I could see tiny bruises that lined my inner thighs, the teeth marks around my nipple, the blood stain streaking down my leg. I could see the innocence and happiness gone from my eyes.

I remember sinking down to the floor, there in the dark, listening to the thunder rumble outside and the rain hitting the window pane. I remember praying that it would drown out my crying so he wouldn't hear me there alone, on the bathroom floor in the darkness, naked, curled up in a ball, humiliated.

He never did hear me.

Negan spared my brother, but used the iron on the left side of his face. My brother died a few months later. A walker ripped his throat out when he went on a trip to get supplies with Dwight and the others.

Negan has no reason to keep me anymore. But now, I can't leave him.

At this point, I'm his prisoner. The lines between wife and whore have been blurred and now I am his favorite toy, his plaything.

The other girls—these "wives"—are afraid of him. They cower in fear when he struts around, swinging Lucille lowly by his side, the barbed wire bat crusted with crimson. A lot of the girls' faces cast downwards when he talks to him. They go quiet, or they become submissive. Or, a few of them don't speak at all. They're terrified of him.

"You're his bottom bitch," one of the girls said. She had a smug look on her face.

I scowled at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Another rolled her eyes. "Like you don't know. He only says 'I love you' to you."

"He likes you best," another one commented.

"He fucking hates me," I countered.

"Yeah, right."

"You know he does, Charlie. Don't act or try to pretend that you don't. You've known him the longest. He fucks you the most. The look in his eyes when he sees you…he doesn't have it with us. You're his pride and joy. He's got a sick obsession with you. You're his favorite."

"He yells at me all the time," I said. "I don't think that makes me his favorite."

"You challenge him," she said. "When nobody else does."

I'm the only one who does not fear him. I'm the one who protects them if he yells, the one who calms him down. I'm the one he always grabs by the elbow and drags into his bedroom.

I'm the rebel of the group and I know he fucking loves it. Every time I talk back, every time I disobey, it happens the same way every time. He takes me roughly by the chin, and shakes me.

"Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," his tongue darts out, running it across his pale lips. "My dirty girl. Do you know who the fuck you're talkin' to?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he says as I try to look away, but he yanks me back to look at him. "You fucking look at me when I talk to you. You get me? Huh?"

One time I spat on the ground in front of him, and another time I slapped him when he'd talked to me like that. He struck me so hard it knocked me down to my knees. But I didn't cry.

I can't feel anything. I've become numb.

"When will you learn?" he snarled at me.

He raises a good question: when will I learn?

He used to like to use humiliation as a tactic to punish me. Once, he'd had enough of my rebellious attitude.

"I love you, Charlie," he said. "But there are repercussions for pissing me off."

He'd made me sit on his lap, finger-fucking me in front of Simon and three other Saviors. I can still remember the roughness of his leather-gloved fingers, probing my opening as he smirked at me, never breaking eye contact. Simon and the others sat there and watched, sick smiles growing on their faces.

I tried not to look at him. I tried not to moan.

"Who's a good girl?" he said. "You gonna cum for me? Huh? Don't be coy, Charlie. You're self-lubricating. I can feel you. Don't try to fool me. I know you're ready. You're holding back. Always trying to be rebellious. My little rebel. You can only hold back for so long."

His thumb rubbed my clit in slow, rhythmic motions.

"What? A little embarrassed in front of good ol' Simon and the boys?"

They laughed.

Tears brimmed my eyes. I couldn't stop it. I came, and dug my nails into his leather jacket as I moaned aloud. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Look at th _at_!" he exclaimed, beaming. "Holy shit. Look what she was holding out from us."

Humiliated, I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. Negan pulled my skirt back down from being bunched around my waist. He smacked my thigh. "Good. Now get outta here and get the fuck outta my face."

It used to work. But since I've become numb, nothing humiliates me anymore. His tactics don't work.

I don't know what I hate more—the way he fucks me, so tirelessly, so dominantly and aggressive, like a fucking animal—or the way I can't bring myself to kill him.

I can't even tell you how many times I've tried to kill him. I've lost count. I'm a coward.

It happens the same way every time. It's a never-ending cycle. Negan fucks me until all hours of the morning. Usually, he begins around 10 and stops around 1, sometimes 2, if he has a lot of anger he wants to get out.

Nights when he gets angry with me, he flips me around and growls in my ear that he's gonna fuck my brains out. Then he does.

After that, he gathers me into his arms, spooning me. He smells of cigarettes and heavy, masculine aftershave, of the outside air, of the woods.

"I love you, kid," he says, his eyes burning into mine.

I can't remember the last time anybody says that they love me other than him. He knows me better than anyone, and I know him better than anyone. There's a sick, disturbed, ashamed part of me that loves him back.

Maybe I'm getting Stockholm Syndrome. I don't know. I don't understand my emotions anymore.

"I fucking hate you," I say, and he grins, kissing me hard.

He falls asleep, encompassing me in his arms, protective, like someone will steal me from him in the night. I lay awake, staring up at the popcorn ceilings in the dark, wondering how I got here.

And then I look at Lucille, his barbed-wire wrapped baseball bat, leaning against the nightstand beside me. All I'd have to do it reach out, grasp it, take it, sit up, straddling him. I'd bash his fucking brains in, blood and his brain matter splattering across my bare breasts and neck and face. I'd keep hitting him and hitting him until there was not an inch left of his striking, smug face.

Lucille is there every night, and yet, I can't bring myself to do it. I know things would be better if I slaughtered him. I know I would be free, no longer a slave to the cruel man that I'm instructed to call "my husband." He's not my husband. He's my master. Always will be.

I can't kill him. I can't.

I'm his biggest challenge, his sick addiction, his slave, his "dirty girl."

The mother of his child.

He doesn't know it yet.


End file.
